


Nature's Court

by Hambone



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Gross, M/M, Rage, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 16:42:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17943428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hambone/pseuds/Hambone
Summary: Brador finds Simon before the Hunter does.





	Nature's Court

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this is barely edited but I wanted to get it out there. I'm shocked, shocked, that this hasn't been done yet. For shame. 
> 
> Enjoy!

    Simon clawed at the mud, pulling himself another few feet. Brador’s last swing had caught his shin. He didn’t think it was broken, because the leg lay right, but his bones were still shaking, and he could not stand.

    “Beg for my pity,” said Brador, froth flecking his beard, “beg for mercy, for you will not be granted my forgiveness.”

    “I’ve told you,” Simon gasped, “I wa-I wasn’t there!”

    “You were one of them, then,” Brador stalked closer, shifting his hands around the rusted grip of his weapon, “you’re just as guilty.”

    “As were you!”

    Simon pulled his legs close to himself painfully as Brador approached, unable to continue his trek through the bog but unwilling to submit himself to the fate he had already witnessed doled out upon countless others. The assassin of the church was truly dedicated to his phlebotomy, but to suck poison from the wound was not to cure the cause, only the symptom. What could either of them do now, stuck here in the nightmare like rot on a limb already shed from a still living body.

    “And I fought for her!” Brador snapped his jaw, teeth bared. With his hood of skin and horn, he looked like a beast, but he was not one, and it only made his rage more frightening.

    “I fought the others, I would have saved her had any of you cowards had stomach enough to stand with me!”

    His eyes were dark behind his mask.

    “And even still I know I deserved punishment for my failure, and this I got. I wear my judgement everyday as if it were my own hide. We all must answer for this crime, all of mankind.”

    “I was too young,” Simon pleaded quietly, “I wasn’t there! I did not know, I didn’t.”

    Brador took another step forwards, his boots sticking in the mud. It wasn’t quite raining, but the sky still spat down occasionally. Between the sweat of his pain and the damp air, Simon was dripping, cold.

    “I cannot be held accountable anymore. It’s not fair.”

    He saw the swing coming but could do nothing as Brador’s bloodletter came down upon him again. This time the aim was clean and one of its spines bit into his leg, perfectly cleaving the bones between ankle and foot apart. Simon’s scream was cut off by retching. In the nightmare there was no need for food, but a black and sour liquid poured from within his stomach long enough to leave him blind for want of air. The vomit mixed with wet earth until he could not tell the two apart, everything before him stinking and wet and foul.

    “Was it fair, what they did to the Mother?”

    Brador pulled back but his weapon was stuck. He pressed a boot to Simon’s calf and with both hands tore the spike free. Simon howled, thrashing himself away into his own sick.

    “Do you think she knew why? Do you think they even bothered to tell her?”

    His hood was pressed slick to his forehead, obscuring his vision, and Simon curled into it as if the darkness would save him.

    “All of you who press too deeply into the scar deserve your punishment.”

    Dropping his bloodletter heavily, Brador crouched down over Simon, watching him squirm.

    “You did this to yourself. Not just by searching wounds long closed, but in your cowardice. Had you simply accepted your fate from the start, you wouldn’t have suffered like this. But I suppose I can expect no less from the gutless wretches who beach themselves here thinking they will find answers.”

    Simon could not respond. There was no humanity in Brador’s voice. He would never stop. His bow had been lost in the rain a few feet away, dropped when he was first downed, but he was not wholly unarmed yet. Now that Brador was so close, he had a chance to catch him off guard. Simon’s fingers twitched towards the small knife in the waistband of his tattered trousers, but he wasn’t sure, not yet.

    Brador regarded him silently, nostrils flaring as if he could scent the man as a hunting dog might. This nightmare was not his, but he knew it better than even the dreamer. No one had ever found its secrets alluring enough to face the promise of torturous demise, yet this fool had remained here for many long years, poking and prying. He’d been harmless enough for much of it, unable to progress himself despite knowing more about their circumstances than most, but over time Brador had caught up with him more easily, and his fight had grown weaker. In time they all became tired. All but he, the true master of the Church’s secrets, even more so than Maria in her infinite empathy above. In his chambers he was an old man, but his spirit still retained the viciousness of his prime self.

    “The despicable things you’ve done… there is no point to dredging the lake.”

    He pushed Simon flat on his back, crawling over him in the filth. Rain, stinking from the hide on his back, matted Simon’s blindfold down until he could see the dark circles around where his eyes must be. Perhaps it was in disguise, but Brador thought that, if he had become drunk enough to be taken by the dream, the bandages likely hid signs of collapse in his eyes, creeping beastliness.

    This was when Simon struck. He ripped the blade from his pants and smoothly drove it into Brador’s side. It clipped rib but sunk deep, and Brador, rather than recoiling, fell onto him with a deep grunt. Simon pulled back and stabbed again, and again, crying out as Brador’s weight crushed his wounds open wide but not ceasing till the strange stench of a spirit’s blood was everywhere, swirling in puddles around his hood.

    Brador gripped his wrist with such strength that Simon could not believe he was human any longer.

    “That’s enough!”

    He could see Brador’s eyes through the mangy fur, though only just, black pricks of light above his cracked lips, flecked with red spittle. He dropped the knife immediately, shocked by the pain of it, as his bones creaked in Brador’s hold.

    “You never stop, you hunters of knowledge,” Brador said, quivering with rage, “but neither will I.”

    They were in an odd position now, tangled together, both soaked. Brador’s shadow spilled gore over Simon but he seemed more angered than hindered, and with a quick snap he wrenched Simon’s wrist to the ground beside his head.

    “If you wish to die pitifully, so be it.”

    Simon reeled back but had nowhere to escape to. Brador’s other hand found his throat and squeezed, even as Simon clawed flesh from his forearm, gasping and writhing. A sharp knee kicked his legs apart and he groaned, head lolling as pain became all he knew. When he was permitted breath again it was no blessing, for Brador was tearing at his belt and Simon knew immediately what was going to happen. He gasped and choked on his own spit, chest heaving, and his trousers were ripped down his thighs.

    “You can’t do this,” he managed, gagging and raw, “I just want to end it!”

    “It will never end,” said Brador, slapping away his free hand easily when it reached down, “not as long as men walk this earth.”

    His body was thin and wretched from decades of torment. When Brador dug his untrimmed nails into Simon’s thigh the warm and living flesh felt wrong, looking more like paper than skin and yet it held together regardless. He would tear it to pieces when he was done. With a grunt he hoisted one of Simon’s legs up and Simon howled in pain, kicking instinctively and regretting it. His broken ankle hung strangely, foot dangling limp and ugly, a lump of blood, already swollen and unnatural looking.

    The agony was so great that it rallied Simon’s reserves of strength, as horror bolsters the pinned rat, and he lurched away with a roar. It was short lived, the mud raking through his fingers, but it got him out of Brador’s grip for one moment of freedom that he knew was false but could not help but rejoice in. the rain was lessening, misting the hills around with fog, dark crags against the shifting horizon. It was almost as though there was something to escape to here.

    It had been a mistake to roll on his side. Brador grabbed the rag of his hood, pushing his face down into the coppery soil, and mounted him from behind. Simon could feel his hips press against his naked bottom and hissed curses.

    “Yes,” Brador laughed deeply, “you know well what I plan for you. That’s good. Punishment means nothing if it’s not understood.”

    “Please,” wheezed Simon.

    “Ah, no,” Brador growled, “you’ve lost your chance to beg. You didn’t deserve it to begin with.”

    He was already hard. The shape of Brador’s cock dug into the cleft of his backside, the button of his trousers cutting into his skin. With his free hand Brador pushed Simon’s ratty shirt up, exposing him fully, and as he drew his hand back he drug red furrows into his spine, caking dirt into the fresh wounds.

    Simon didn’t want to apologize, couldn’t apologize, not truthfully, but even though he knew it was too late a part of him still felt sorry. Sorry for whatever hell had transpired to keep this man so enflamed with anger after all this time, sorry for all the poor souls dragged to eternal suffering for reasons they would never fully comprehend, sorry for himself, as wretched as his disguise, breathing in the stink of rotten blood in an unreal forest as Brador’s filthy fingers traced between his buttocks with crude distaste. He had done nothing but ask the question, nothing at all.

    “Those who were there, those who weren’t,” Brador continued, almost casual as the pad of his thumb pressed into Simon’s ass roughly, “it doesn’t matter. You’re all part of it, together. All painted by the same sin.”

    Gasping wetly, Simon clenched his fists. Sometimes a predator would lose interest if its prey did not pose a challenge. He could feel the heat of Brador’s breath on his spine, each draw to his lungs rattling with a low growl. The finger inside him was not preparing, only testing, and it was dry and raw and even through the fog of sensation his mutilated leg had dropped upon his mind he could register that it hurt. Only more so when Brador dipped his other thumb in by the first, scratching at Simon’s most delicate of places with an untrimmed nail, and then pulled him apart.

    “Oh, God,” Simon sobbed. Brador made a harsh sound, and spit on him, not enough, a glob of saliva that hit above mark and then slowly trickled down to his stretched hole. It burned almost as if this were yet another wound Brador had opened upon him, raw.

    “Y-you’re a beast.”

    “Perhaps,” said Brador, retracting one thumb and using the other to smear his spittle inside him, still aching, in to the knuckle, “for I too am a consequence for your actions.”

    As he undid his trousers Simon felt a sudden wave of helplessness strike upon him, as though he were a child again, weak and unable to comprehend the reasons for his suffering. It was infuriating and humbling all at once and he groaned bitterly. To fight back would be to ensure he suffered more, for he was not totally unarmed, too injured to even stand, or crawl, but too lucid to escape through unconsciousness. Sleep was impossible in the nightmare, dreams even less concrete. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept. He was so, so tired.

    Brador pushed his cock against Simon’s ass, and Simon could hear the slavering monster inside him when he groaned, low and rumbling. Brador spat onto his palm, rubbed it along his cock as if it was anywhere near enough, already nudging against Simon’s hole.

    “It isn’t fair,” Simon wept, squeezing his eyes shut, “it isn’t fair.”

    The first push was hard and both of them were hurt by it. Simon’s body, unopened, unwetted, resisted and Brador could not penetrate him, but it only seemed to anger him more. Snarling in strain, Brador brought both his hands to Simon’s hips and dragged him back through the muck, against his pelvis, humping against him until he began to weaken and give way. There was no sudden release of pressure, for he was using a blunt instrument to ream a blunt row, and every movement dry, cracking pain.

    When he was sunk as deeply as he would go, Brador pulled back, and it was clean that he derived little pleasure from it, snarling as Simon’s body clung to him, tugged back out with him. Simon couldn’t scream so he moaned, the horrible rattle of a man impaled. Brador’s hands braced upon his jagged hip bones and as he jerked himself free something inside tore, a lance of white heat cutting through the dull ache of his confused musculature, causing him to cry out. Like the seam on a shirt, it split wider as Brador pushed back inside him, quicker now, angrier. Simon’s mouth hung wide, foul earth upon his tongue.

    “Oh,” he cried out, “oh!” hearing the wetness of his own blood, feeling it leaking down his thighs as Brador pulled out. He brought their hips together, harder, gasping and wheezing as Simon weakly stirred beneath him like a dying fish. His ankle was almost numb now, too much information making his brain prioritize. Simon wondered if there was disease in the nightmare, if little creatures were crawling up from the mud and into the warm meat of his leg where it lay, oozing. Brador dragged his hips up and Simon was pulled about like a ragdoll, dead weight, fucked onto him without conscious.

    It would have been simple and pretty to be overwhelmed by the horror of it all. Each time Brador moved, it drew every ounce of his strength not to wail, to howl, each inward thrust punching something so deep in his core that he wanted to vomit again. His breath was ripped from his lungs so that he could never catch it, and all he could think about was that he was being shredded from the inside, and what he would look like after. Brador’s shadow ate the ground around him, the man bent and laboring, slavering like a dog.

    “This is what all your preaching has earned you,” Brador panted, “all your – your bloodlust. This is what you get.”

    He pushed in hard, until the rough hem of his pants dug into Simon’s bottom, his fingernails carving bloody lines down Simon’s sides. There was a small break in the clouds, just for a moment, and the sun shone through upon them. Simon could see him then, outlined upon the earth in shadow, his form horned and rearing. Brador pulled back and drew the life from his lungs.

    “This is your fate. Where you belong. You will never escape it.”

    And he pounded back in, knees slipping in the mud, pushing Simon forward so his cheek caught on little sticks and stones. Punishing, animalistic, he pumped into Simon without rhythm, and Simon could feel him pulse inside. It was no comfort to realize Brador was close to completion, for what came after he could not know. He could not steady himself against the blows, could not hold onto the wet ground, so he curled his arms around his face and sobbed.

    Brador came quietly, not with the roar of a beast but with the soft exhale of a man. His shoulder sagged, the soggy pelt on them so heavy, and he stuck his cock as deep as it would go before his orgasm fully hit. Simon could feel it, but not clearly, the hot throbs of jism lost inside the hot throbs of his wounds, of blood. Brador held him still all the while, emptying himself completely. He was burning inside, as if the wounds extended all through his veins, into his heart.

    When he was done he stood on unsteady legs, dropping Simon off his cock so abruptly he cried out again. Brador looked down at the little man he’d broken, not bothering to clean the blood from his piece as he tucked himself away. This body would fade in time. His true self was dry and clean in a stinking cell, having never laid a finger upon him. Simon was quivering, drooling, eyes unfocused, his cropped hair black with filth. All of humanity was united in this pathetic state, eventually.

    “So, hunter, is your curiosity sated?”

    Simon wheezed softly. Brador watched him a moment more, before moving to retrieve his bloodletter. He’d done enough, and he was losing focus on the projection. It was time to end this one, and let the Gods sort out his punishment.

    There was a tug at his senses. It took Brador a moment to realize that it was in his real body. There was a hunter at his door, a key turning in the lock. He looked down at Simon again, now slowly twisting in the mire, and calculated. His vision faded, and he turned to the man who had just entered his room, lazily turning the cold bell in his hand.

    Alone now, Simon wept. There was no justice in this, not for the hunters trapped here or for the Mother herself. It took him what felt like hours to move again, pull his tattered leg far enough away from the site that he could collect himself, fumble in his pockets for a needle. He had to keep going, at least until he found the new hunter again, to end this, if for no reason other than to keep more from falling prey to that mad man. It wasn’t fair.

    But each step was another offense against the church, and Brador had not lied, and he did return, again, and again, and again.


End file.
